I just published a new novel called Chameleon War. I think that most of the people in this forum would enjoy it. I wrote this with all of us in mind. Some people have said it has a bit of a Fear and Loathing in Los Vegas feel mixed with some Tom Robbins strangeness. It revolves around a new psychedelic drug that could easily be mistaken for Salvia. Of course there are drug lords, CIA, sex, violence and rock and roll. It all taking place on a laid back island off Belize. If you are interested, check out the book's web site http://www.chameleonwar.com I've attached some samples for you: Peace, Andrew Crone He lit the bowl and filled the bong. With his hand capped on top, he looked at the chamber. The smoke began to swirl around like a glass of chocolate milk being mixed. Except instead of the brown swirling lines of syrup lifting off the bottom, trails of blue smoke began to emerge. The blue lines spun around in a very jiggy manner. Then they dissipated back into the grey smoke. Hagen looked at Molina with a curious look on his face. She just smiled and motioned for him to take his hit. He pulled out the bowl and inhaled the chamber. The music shifted around. Whoa, those old Bolivian men could sure play some jiggy music. The beat kept shifting. The key they were playing in kept moving around. Then it just fell to pieces, but each piece kept jamming along in its own little world. Hagen exhaled. The smoke broke into several individual pockets. Then, as if it were choreographed, they each formed into the shapes of lizards and scampered off in different directions. His thoughts also began to separate. First, his perception of himself shifted. His thoughts broke into distinct segments as if he had different minds experiencing things differently yet at the same time. He could shift his consciousness from one perception to another or he could jump backward and experience them all at the same time. But he soon realized that it felt most comfortable to just relax, let his mind scamper back and forth and not worry about where it’s going. ‘Just trust the lizard’ he told himself. **** Just beyond the river, a vast sandy beach butted up against to the clay bungalows with their thatched roofs. The village was home to an eclectic mix of local fishermen and American recluses who came to this spot in the sixties and seventies to dodge the draft. The hills were alive with the sounds of magic mushrooms and the beach was favored by naturists, as in the clothing optional type. This mix brought a unique breed of tourists to the area, but they were of the living on a shoestring variety. There wasn’t any electricity, plumbing or phone service in the village, but three dollars could buy a hammock for a night, ten dollars would fetch a bungalow with a lousy mattress. The only road into the place wasn’t passable in the wet season and only an occasional truck would make the trip each week during the dry season. But that seclusion suited the bare ass hippies and the shoestring tourists just fine. And though the local hippie population never had much money, they would leave from time to time to sell their mushrooms at the summer music festivals in the States. “Mushrooooms,” they would quietly speak as they walked through the crowds. “Who needs some mushrooms?” their voices sounding like a grandmother asking her grandchildren “Who’s ready for some ice cream?” Far from barking out a sales pitch, it would be toned to only draw the unsuspecting ear of somebody tuned into that message, like Shaggy hearing somebody in a crowd mention Scooby Snacks. Zoinks! What was that? Like did I just hear somebody say Scooby Snacks?” Mushroooooooms.” Like far out, man.” And when the bare assed hippies sold what they had on their summer tour, they would return to their pot phased, hammock hanging, sun drenched naturist stomping grounds bringing just enough expendable money to keep the rest of the poor assed, hard working, God fearing fisherman population thankful that they had become part of their community.
